It's just before 10am and on Pocklington's Walk, Leicester Magistrates' Court braces itself for another day, another week in the prolonged business of dispensing justice.
The courts, all 10 of them, are upstairs, on the first floor of this purpose-built 1990s building, one of the biggest magistrates' courts in the UK.
To reach them, everyone who comes here – the defendants, more than 20,000 of them last year, apparently, the solicitors, the probation officers, the magistrates themselves – have to step through a huge scanner, the type you might find at the airport.
This one is so sensitive it seems to pick up the fillings in your teeth.
Once you've set that alarm off, and you will, a lady in a G4S uniform frisks you thoroughly with a metal detector. "You'd be amazed at the stuff I've found," she says. Knives, blades, all sorts of unsuitable items no-one needs to bring with them when they attend a magistrates' courts.
Then, after the frisk – and only then – are you allowed in.
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Everything about the application of justice in Leicester takes a long time.
Sometimes, justice is slow because justice is careful.
Sometimes, justice is slow because justice is busy. Lawyers are busy. Probation officers are busy. A never ending supply of defendants. The court schedules fill effortlessly.
Sometimes, though, justice is slow because justice does not work as it should work.
Interpreters can't be found. Solicitors can't be found. Defendants are missing. Letters have gone missing. Files which should be there, aren't.
Cases which should be heard are delayed, put back, and the system slowly grinds to a halt.
This happens often during the two days we spent watching the work of Leicester Magistrates' Court last week.
"You should see it, day after day," one defence solicitor says, off the record. He won't speak on the record. To be fair, he can't.
Cases are put back, he says, often at great inconvenience to defendants, defence solicitors, magistrates and the system. And they're put back and cancelled for reasons that don't wash, shouldn't wash, yet the system allows it.
"It is infuriating and it's getting worse. You should put that in your paper – but it should be in every newspaper, in big, banner headlines."
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'Local justice by local people for local people."
That was always the idea, and although it might sound like an awful soundbite from the New Labour era, the premise of local justice is more than 600 years old.
Local justice means crimes committed in the community are seen to be punished on behalf of the community, by people in the community.
The magistrates know the streets which are plagued with anti-social behaviour. They know the pubs where the fights happen. They get to recognise the same names, the same people supping at the last chance saloon.
That local knowledge is being slowly eroded. Magistrates' courts in Melton, Coalville and Market Harborough all closed in 2010.
Hinckley magistrates' court – a £4.5m court office opened in 2000 – is to close later this year.
Most of those cases are heading to Leicester, upstairs in one of the 10 courts at Pocklington Walk.
Maybe the people who make these decisions think these courts are not, perhaps, busy enough.
They're in for a shock.
Upstairs, the friendly usher points towards court seven. Court seven is the virtual court, where images of prisoners on remand are beamed into the courtroom from prison or a nearby police station.
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Leicester is one of the first courts in the county to use this system. It saves time and money.
For the routine remand cases, bail breaches, supervision orders which have been broken, it seems to be working well.
"That's where all the action is," she says, and sure enough a succession of men – all men, all in tracksuits, on remand for a variety of charges (drugs, driving offences, assault) appear on the flat-screen TV in front of District Judge John Temperley, who bats them off, one by one, in a flurry of ruthless efficiency.
Then, a break. The usher calls Robert North, who shuffles in, on crutches and clearly in pain, accompanied by a guard twice his size, to take the stand.
North, of Kane Close, Coalville, is 31, but looks 20 years older. He is charged with two counts of arson and one of criminal damage.
In August last year, North was a prisoner at HMP Welford Road jail, Leicester.
Twice in two days, North set fire to his prison cell and his prison bedding before damaging an observation point and a cupboard.
North had been agitated, the court heard, making threats, demands, constantly activating his cell alarm.
The fire only caused "only moderate damage", according to his defence solicitor, Olwen Davies.
The prosecution refutes this, saying the damage cost £786, and caused a certain amount of unnecessary unrest in the prison.
But why set fire to your own cell? What does this achieve?
There were numerous reasons, Ms Davies explains.
One was that a man from his past, a man North did not like, had been moved on to the same wing.
He had received threats of violence, which had unnerved him.
But the main reason, said Ms Davies, was that when North moved into his cell at Leicester prison, he unwittingly inherited a debt of £800 from a previous prisoner who had been housed in his cell.
That prisoner had moved on – but the debt remained. By moving into the cell, North took on the debt.
"This wasn't my client's debt," she says.
"He had nothing to do with it, but by moving into the cell, the debt became his."
This, it seems, is the way prison works.
North had a choice. He could pay the debt – or he could accept the "punishment''.
He didn't know what the punishment entailed, only that it wouldn't be nice.
North chose neither of those two options. Instead, he decided kick up such a fuss the prison officers would have no choice but to move him from his cell.
"He caused the first fire, hoping to be moved, but nothing happened," says Ms Davies. "So he did it again. It escalated. He was frustrated and he did it for self-preservation. Sending him back to prison today won't help him."
North watches the proceedings motionless, barely blinking.
"He is now on a methadone drug replacement programme," Ms Davies says, "and he is trying to get his life back on track.
"He can't perform unpaid work because of his injuries. I would suggest a suspended sentence might be appropriate."
District Judge Temperley does not agree.
"Any damage to a prison cell, especially a fire, should be viewed very seriously," he said. "It can cause unrest to the prison system."
North was sentenced to 24 weeks in prison. There was no order for compensation.
A spokesman for the Department of Justice insists there is "no evidence" to suggest this prisoner had inherited any debt.
"We have never heard of prisoners inheriting debts," he said. "Damage to cells is not tolerated. Prisoners who do this are prosecuted and may face extra time behind bars."
At the back of court seven, a man in his 60s sits by himself. He is not a defendant. He is not there to support an errant son or friend. He's there to observe.
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He comes every week or so. "I just think it's better than staying at home watching daytime TV," he says.
Paul Smith, 68, retired as school's premises officer two years ago.
"I do all sorts of things, and I never come here on a Tuesday because that's the day I have my grandson all day," he says.
Having his grandson, he laughs, keeps him far busier than his work used to.
Five years ago, they called Paul up for jury service.
It wasn't the most interesting case but, still, it lasted for a week and it was a fascinating insight to how justice works.
"After that, I got the bug," he says. "I try to come down whenever I can."
He has a hearing aid in his left ear, so it's sometimes a bit of a struggle to hear what is happening, but this is better than Jeremy Kyle or Homes Under the Hammer. This is real life.
"I've seen so many interesting cases, stuff that you wouldn't believe if I tried to tell you down the pub," he says.
"But mainly, all I see is young lives thrown needlessly away. A lot of what goes on here is needless.
"There was a lad in one of the courts this morning who caused £80 worth of criminal damage and he's got to pay it back, £10 a week."
Why couldn't they sort that out before coming to court, asks Paul.
"I'm sure it would have cost more than that to bring him here.
"I see it time after time. Young lads – and they're nearly always young lads – who have done something stupid; got drunk, got into a fight.
"And they get sent down and that's it, isn't it? That's their life ruined. Who is going to employ them with a criminal record?"
It's horrible, he says. A horrible situation. A horrible world.
And with that, he goes back to watching the remainder of the morning's cases.
If it's slow going on the Monday morning at Leicester magistrates - and it is, it really is - the work trickles to a halt in the afternoon.
Four, maybe five times in the space of a couple of hours on Monday, new cases cannot be heard because the prosecuting lawyers don't have the right files.
This is elementary and Judge Temperley is distinctly unimpressed.
"If there is someone downstairs, in custody, and there's no paperwork for their case at three in the afternoon... well, that's just not good enough," he says.
The prosecuting lawyer shrugs his shoulders and unfurls his excuses. He asked for the paperwork. He asked again. He was told it was sent at 2pm. It still hasn't arrived.
"I am not blaming you, personally," Judge Temperley says. "I am just making a statement."
We tried to ask the Crown Prosecution Service about this. It seemed like, journalistically, the right thing to do. We didn't get a response.
Moss Johnson is brought up from the cells. He can't give his address because he doesn't have an address. He is homeless.
He is 27 years old and his life is already in tatters.
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On Saturday, February 20 at 7.30am, Johnson was spotted weaving in and out of traffic in Southfields Drive, near Saffron Lane, Leicester. He looked drunk.
The police were called and Johnson was arrested and taken to the police station.
He was searched. Two small packages were found; a bag of white powder which was tested and found to be amphetamines and a small amount of what appeared to be cannabis.
Johnson declined a police interview because he "couldn't be bothered".
His life story unravels before the court like the plot of a bad book.
Long-term drug problems, nowhere to live, no job, no money, mental health issues. It's a grim combination which means Johnson has already spent far too much of his adult life in prison.
The real tragedy here is not that Johnson has wasted so much of his life in prison. It's that this is now the way he prefers it.
His lawyer, Roger Day, says his client is happiest when he is behind bars. Prison provides a structure in his life.
He is told what to do, when to eat, what to do next. He is given methadone. Prison life suits him.
"The wheels come off for him when he comes out of prison," says Mr Day.
Johnson can't cope with the problems and responsibility of real life, so he ducks them by doing drugs.
In the dock, Johnson is sitting down. He is unshaven. He looks tired, unkempt and yet vulnerable, like a little boy lost.
"On the day before he was arrested, he went to his doctor's surgery for a prescription of methadone," says Mr Day, "but he couldn't get one."
You might think that, if you were in that situation, you'd try something else, says Mr Day.
"But my client lost all hope. He gave in. He bought drugs. He gave up."
It's a familiar story. "He just feels his case, his life, is hopeless," says Mr Day.
Today, Johnson is charged with two counts of drug possession and a breach of a supervision order from a previous sentence. He pleads guilty to all charges.
"You might think it would be best to send him to prison, your honour," says Mr Day, addressing the judge, "but what Mr Johnson needs is a chance to get his life sorted out. With the right help, he can be stable again."
Judge Temperley makes his decision quickly.
"I am going to take no action today," he says. "You have been in detention since Saturday. That is punishment enough. I want to give you a chance to sort your life out."
There will be meetings with probation officer and sessions with a mental health practitioners.
Johnson must attend these meetings, the judge says.
"You can do this," he adds. "You can turn your life around. But if I see you in this court again, you will go to prison. Do you understand?"
Moss stands from his seat, nods his head and he cries.
He walks free from court. He turns to the judge and says thank you. The judge doesn't hear him.
More than 20,000 people were dealt with by Leicester Magistrates' Courts in 2015.
More than 9,000 of those cases were road traffic incidents, 5,000 indictable offences (more serious cases that may warrant a trial by jury), 6,000 less serious offences and 600 youth cases.
A spokesperson for the Dept of Justice said more than £700 million was being spent to modernise the legal system, the biggest investment "in a generation," she said.
"We want the system to work better for victims and better for justice for all. A shared digital platform is being developed and piloted, which we hope to roll out soon, which will allow the courts, the CPS, defence solicitors and so on to share the same information."
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